


On The Water

by mushroommafia



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Not an AU!, lifeguarding!, non-massacre, well sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:35:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroommafia/pseuds/mushroommafia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiss the shores. August is too hot for assassinations.  Itachi/Shisui.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yokosawa

**Author's Note:**

> Canon...compliant. I guess. Slow build and shameless Itachi/Shisui.

Like every other month, August for Shisui meant the stench of blood and the trills and tremors of pain, only worsened by the sun and overbearing humidity. August meant the buzzing of flies around the dead bodies nobody got around to burning. August meant infection, August meant thirst, August meant sticky hands and sweaty foreheads and body odor.

Shisui was pretty done with Augusts, and so finally, this August morning, he turned in his request for leave at the Sandaime's desk personally. "It doesn't even have to be paid leave," he added proudly. "I got a job as a lifeguard."

The Sandaime puffed his smoke thoughtfully, and let the smoke rings drift up, up, up, even past the interminable towers of paperwork as he regarded Shisui’s forms. "Shisui, my dear boy, aren't you a little old to be having a midlife crisis?"

That was probably true. At twenty-two, Shisui by all surveys and statistics should be dead, or at least dying. By those same surveys and statistics, the Sandaime was probably a demonic spirit staying alive through the sucking of children's souls. "Better late than never," he said with a shrug.

"My dear boy," said the Sandaime, as he nonchalantly and inexplicably began to tear up Shisui's forms, "I don't quite believe that applies here."

Shisui gaped at his shredded papers. "Are you rejecting my request?"

"Not at all," said the Sandaime cheerfully, even as he set them on fire. "Enjoy your leave, my boy, but before you go, touch bases with the Council.  Oh, and send in Kakashi on your way out, would you?"  He scooped the ashes into his hands and blew them out the open window.  

The Sandaime was probably having a senile fit because he was overdue for a feeding, or something. Shisui wondered if his own soul were young enough to be of interest. Relatively speaking, it probably was, so Shisui made a noise of assent, gave a bow and beat a hasty retreat.

Kakashi wasn't all that hard to find, wandering the streets with his lurid orange book held to his nose. Shisui, never one to waste energy, flash stepped to his side.

"Hokage has summons," said Shisui, walking next to him. Kakashi didn't look up, nor did he break his stride.

"Today's mission was supposed to go to your team," said Kakashi mildly, which seemed like just the sort of inside information Kakashi would know.

"Unfortunately for you," said Shisui with a broad grin, "I'll be lifeguarding instead.  For all of August, actually."

"Lifeguarding?" repeated Kakashi, tipping his head slightly. "I didn't take you as the type for long-terms."

This odd wording gave Shisui pause.  " _Life_ guarding, not life _guarding_ ," he said slowly.  "You know, at a beach." He suddenly frowned. "You have been at a beach, right?"

"A beach," echoed Kakashi. "Yes."

Shisui studied him. "A beach like the sandy, rocky expanse along the shores of crystal-clear blue water frequented primarily by women in bikinis and civilian children with floatsies and beach balls and sand castles?" he pressed.

Kakashi looked mildly disturbed at the image.  "Of course," he said.

"Really?" asked Shisui.

"I've been to a beach, Shisui-kun."

"You've _been_ to a beach, sure, but have you ever _been_ to a beach?"

Kakashi snapped his book shut and gave him a weird look. "Shisui-kun, how many hours of sleep do you get on average?"

"Three to four," answered Shisui promptly. "But that's not the point. Have you ever gone suntanning? Swimming for reasons unrelated to espionage, recon, sabotage, and or assassination?"

Kakashi’s stare grew incrementally more uninterested.  As Shisui waited patiently, if in a little horror, for a response, he merely flicked his gaze skyward.

"Well well, would you look at the time," he said vaguely. "The Sandaime must be expecting me, and I shouldn't want to late." He began strolling off. "It was nice to chat, Shisui-kun."

"You don't have to be ashamed," Shisui told him. "I can show you where Konoha's best beaches are next time. Lots of ninja have never been!  You're not all that socially inept!" He considered this.  "Relatively speaking, of course."

Kakashi only twiddled a few fingers at him. Shisui rolled his eyes, and then something struck him as odd.

"Hey!" he shouted after Kakashi, as realization dawned. "The Tower's the other way!"

Some ninja were just incurable, reflected Shisui, as he began sauntering home. It was a good thing they were already so fucked up, because there was certainly no shortage of others who wanted to fuck them up, and not in the good way.

* * *

 

 Konoha’s beaches were the most beautiful on this side of the continent, and that wasn’t just some diminutive, close-minded opinion of Shisui’s. This was because Konoha’s beaches were in fact the _only_ beaches on this side of the continent, seeing as the rest of the coast belonged to Kumo and the land of _Frost_.  Wars had been fought, and quite literally, over some of the northern stretches of Konoha’s coastline, and decades of bloodshed had culminated grudgingly in a truce that allowed both Northern nin and Konoha nin to frequent beaches from the thirtieth parallel up.  Naturally, this meant the only Konoha nin up here were either sociopaths or on patrol duty, because who would waste time mingling with blood-line stealing scum with already-perfect tans, when one could luxe it up at the glorious beaches below the thirtieth?

Uchiha Shisui would, it turned out.  His lifeguarding assignment, as the fates had decreed, was just shy of the thirty third parallel, where the ratio of Northern civilians to Konoha civilians was undefined because it was simply poor math to divide by zero.

Still, Shisui was a born and bred optimist. Kumo women were still women, and beautiful at that; never mind if their husbands and fathers and sons liked getting freaky with other clans' eyeballs. Would he slice the throat of a Kumo kunoichi that tried to root through Uchiha secrets?  Well, yes, but not a little regretfully. Although this was just Shisui's professional opinion, and one he would not repeat or admit to any where near the Tower.  Or the Council's dubious and shady den.

Unlike the Hokage, the three Elders resided in a very traditional, very small, and very flat one room bamboo structure on the very opposite side of the Uchiha district and as such, very close to Shisui’s apartment.  What they did in there was open for interpretation, but was generally agreed upon as lots of sitting, very little thinking, and a fair amount of diabolical laughing.  Shisui ducked under the flap with substantial trepidation, which was pretty reasonable considering Shisui’s penchant for out-of-the-box thinking and the verbal beatings they generated.  

He sunk into a bow before his eyes could even adjust to the darkness of the room.  “Good morning, honorable Elders,” he murmured.  

"And you, Uchiha."  Utatane’s croaky voice sounded from the depths.  “You may rise.”

“Ma’am,” said Shisui, straightened, and squinted.  The Elders were sitting on their heels surrounded by flickering candles, illuminating their features into even ghastlier versions of their grotesque selves.  Last time Shisui’d been here (three days ago), and the scene had been much more pleasant, with airy light streaming in from windows that had since vanished.

“We hear you wish to procure leave,” wheezed Homura.  

“Lifeguarding at Yokosawa,” offered Shisui tentatively.  

“Yokosawa?” echoed Homura.  “You are lifeguarding at Yokosawa?”

  
“Uh, yes sir,” said Shisui.

“Do not, under any circumstances, set foot on the Kumo side,” said Danzo.  

“Alright,” said Shisui.

“Any circumstances,” he repeated.

“Okay,” said Shisui.  

Danzo glared.  “ _Any_ circumstances,” he stressed.

"Right," said Shisui uncertainly. "Is that...all?"

The glare narrowed.  “As long as you understand,” he said, threateningly.  

“I do,” said Shisui.  

“Then that is all.”

“Thanks.  Thank you.  Bye.”  He backed out, careful to keep his eyes trained on Danzo.  As the flap brushed back into place, Shisui dove for his apartment.  

Shisui lived on the very top floor of his complex, which seemed like a good idea at the time, coming from the single floor, sprawling expanse of the Uchiha Compound.  The novelty had faded very quickly - in fact just two days later, when he stumbled home after having been chased nonstop for eight hours with Cloud nin hot on his heels, and stared despairing at his apartment fourteen flights of stairs away.  He might have just swallowed his fatigue like a true shinobi and hauled ass up to bed, but judging by how he had woken up with his blankets tucked perfectly around his figure, it was infinitely more likely that Itachi carried him like a sack of potatoes and tucked him in like the mother duck he’d always been.  

Now, staring at the tiny, cluttered space of his apartment, Shisui was suddenly confronted with a dilemma of logistics and short sightedness: what kind of _things_ did a shinobi bring to lifeguard?  Shorts, sunglasses, a towel, sure, but was sunscreen really necessary?  He had all sorts of jutsus for protecting against Sound nin attacks of all wavelengths - what were some PABA particulates going to do against UV that his chakra couldn’t?  But either way, he scrounged around his bathroom for the sunblock Aunt Mikoto had pressed into his hands one day, and tossed it in his bags.  Better safe than sorry, pride goeth before a fall, cleanliness is next to godliness, do unto others as you would have others do unto you - or something like that, right?

Shinobi work trained one to be able to act on short notice, and so within five minutes, Shisui sat back and wondered what else he could possibly need.  Actually, that was partially incorrect.  Shisui wondered what else he _already owned_ that he could possibly need, the answer to which was _nothing much_ but that spoke more about what he already owned than what he could possibly need.  He slung the pack over his back, criss-crossing with his tanto, and thought for a moment who else he needed to inform.  The good thing about being unaffiliated (more or less) with the Uchiha Clan was that he was unaffiliated (more or less) with the Uchiha Clan.  Although, Aunt Mikoto may or may not care, but she was Aunt Mikoto, and probably knew he was taking a leave before he even knew.  Itachi, on the other hand, most definitely would care, and most definitely would have some choice words to impart to him, but he and his overachieving ass were off on a mission in some godforsaken wasteland.  

Would Shisui’s teammates care?  Considering the fact that they were scheduled for that mission this morning he scrammed on, and had consequently been stuck with Hatake Kakashi, the answer was probably yes.  But therein lay the problem, seeing how they _probably already knew_.  When they got back, Shisui thought, he would have to watch himself.  Anko and Tokuma, though lovely and upstanding members of society - or at least Tokuma was, being a Hyuuga and all - were pretty goddamn dangerous teammates to have when they were enemy teammates.  

Outside of those four people, Shisui couldn’t for the life of him think of anyone else who might be affected.  Such, he reflected mournfully, was the life of a shinobi.  Minimize the magnitude of ties to cut and all.  It was pretty sad.  He could just vanish off the face of the earth, be lying dead face-down in some muddy river water, and it would be dismissed by the general population as ‘another mission’ or perhaps the ambiguous ‘shinobi antics’.  

Funny enough, 'shinobi antics' was the exact phrase Shisui garnered in whispers while walking to the border. Each time he looked down to make sure he hadn't accidentally pulled on a green unitard and orange legwarmers or started walking on his hands. And each time he confirmed that he was indeed wearing just his normal, civilian-esque swim trunks and was advancing forward one foot in front the other as any civilian.  Okay, he wasn't wearing a shirt, but civilians didn't wear shirts with swim trunks either, and besides, his modesty was being perfectly well maintained with with his tanto's leather harness and his six weapons crossbodies slung across his chest and then his sack of Real Stuff.  So what was the problem?  Did he look funny, or something?

Maybe he did.  The chuunin at the border gave Shisui an odd sort of look.  “Nice shorts,” he drawled. "Can I see your forms?"

Shisui looked down at his swim trunks again, uncertain.  Hawaiian was definitely in this year, wasn’t it?  Wasn’t Hawaiian always in?  “Thanks!” he told him brightly, and reached into the third weapons pouch on his left hip for his forms. He groped around for a moment when sudden realization broke upon him.  "My forms," he said blankly.

"Request to leave forms," said the chuunin, arching an eyebrow.

"Well," he prevaricated. Was this a time when the truth was better than genjutsu?  

Probably not.  “I’m sorry about this,” he told the chuunin.  

“About - ?” was as far as he got before his eyes went strangely unfocused.  “Enjoy your leave,” he said and gave a dazed wave.  “Shisui-sama.”

Well, that was a nice touch.  “Thanks, man,” said Shisui, and vanished in a blur.  

 

* * *

 

Yokosawa cove presented modest offerings in the forms of tall craggy cliffs, cold clean waves, pebbles that dug painfully between your toes, and an excellent assortment of washed-up seashells. The sun was out, but that was a _for now_ sort of thing, so Shisui tipped his head back to the sky and closed his eyes for a moment.  

“...Uchiha-san, are you listening?”  

 

Oh, that was probably the guy he’d found strolling the coastline.  He didn’t recall giving him his name, but Shisui was pretty famous, if he did say so himself.

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” said Shisui, breathing in the salty slosh of the ocean.  “Go on.”

He heard the man give a dull sigh.  “My name is Darui,” said Darui, presumably.  “I have been discharged to work here on accounts of treason to Kumo.  It is nice to meet you.”

“Treason?” Shisui cracked one eye for a moment to briefly regard the man.  “You’re a traitor?  Konoha takes in traitors from other villages.”  Of course, they usually got conveniently ‘lost’ in the depths of the Torture and Interrogation Department never to be seen again.

“I’m not a traitor,” said Darui, in what must been his most passionate voice but in reality fell between bored and tired on the spectrum.  

“Those who commit treason were generally known as traitors,” lectured Shisui.  “And you did just say you committed treason.  By the transitive property, you are known as a traitor.  Does Kumo have different standards of rationality?”

“No, but Kumo has different standards of treason,” explained Darui listlessly.  “I did not dispose of my teammate when he was wounded on our mission, and this was judged as treason against the shinobi code.  But not my village.  So I am here.  But I am not a traitor.”

“Harsh punishment,” commented Shisui enviously.  If it only took saving his teammate’s life to procure a vacation, he had been overdue this position since age eight. “How long is your, um, exile?”

“Two weeks,” said Darui mournfully.  “This is my second.”

The wind was picking up, and from the sounds of it, a few families were filtering in through the scrub.   Shisui took in a deep lungful of air and blinked up at Darui.  Oh, hey.  He was pretty easy on the eyes, what with burnt sienna skin and a shocking mop of blond hair.  A week co-lifeguarding with this guy didn’t sound so bad.  “I’ll take the chair on the left, then?”

Darui heaved another sigh.  “Uchiha-san, that chair is on the Kumo side, and is therefore mine.”

“The entire _beach_ is Konoha’s,” reminded Shisui.  “I think I’ll take any chair I want.”

“But that side is definitely Kumo’s,” said Darui, who sounded very much like he couldn’t care less.  

“How can even there be a Kumo side of a Konoha beach?” wondered Shisui, and then remembered Danzo’s words.  He pursed his lips. “Oh, whatever.  Go ahead, take the chair, I’m not about to get chastised over this.”

Darui gave a slow nod.  “It was nice to meet you,” he said, but he made no move to walk away.  He stood still, seeming to gather his energy, and then very reluctantly forced himself to ask, “What is your name?”

Shisui stared at him confusedly.  “You called me Uchiha, didn’t you?”

“You are wearing the Uchiha fan,” he pointed out patiently.  

“Oh, what the fuck?” asked Shisui, who took great measures to avoid that stupid fan.  “Where?”

“On your,” Darui tipped his head toward Shisui’s crotch.  “Backside.”

Shisui furrowed his brows, and twisted around to confirm for himself.  “Goddamn,” he breathed.  “That little fucker actually sewed the fan on my _swim trunks_.”  Sasuke was a clingy, vindictive little bitch.  No matter how many times Shisui tried to cut ties with the Uchiha, he kept coming back with literal needles and thread.  

But also, and more importantly also, Darui had been checking out the vicinity of his ass.  Shisui straightened himself up, and ran his fingers through the windswept toss of his hair.  “Well, you can call me Shisui,” he said with a slow, sure, smile, and strolled over to his lifeguarding throne with better posture than usual.

 

* * *

Ten minutes later, it turned out the actual lifeguarding part was boring as hell, and not what Shisui had set out to do.  But that was easily remedied.  

“Kage Bunshin no Jutsu,” said Shisui, ignoring the mildly scandalized looks Darui was giving both of him several hundred meters away.  “It’s efficient,” he yelled.  

“It’s lazy,” Darui yelled back, but his face as Shisui switched spots with his clone was definitely jealous.

“Don’t be jealous,” said Shisui.  “I can teach it to you.”

“Petty Konoha techniques are not compatible with my chakra,” said Darui, the elitist, and turned back to watching his crowd which was, naturally, much larger than Shisui’s.

Well, Shisui didn’t want to impart any petty Konoha techniques anyway.  He pulled out a towel from his sack and flopped on it, as close to the tide as he dared.  “Save any kids that need saving,” he told his clone.  “That is, if any kids come at all.”

Half an hour into his job, Shisui went to sleep.  So far, so good.  

 

 

 


	2. Storm Debris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little...late

“Storm,” said Darui as he slid open the door.

 

Shisui eyed him, lip curling critically at the mess of sand and water gathered at Darui’s feet. He slouched more comfortably against the bed headboard. “Yeah, I can tell,” he said, turning another page in _Tales of a Gutsy Ninja_. “What’s your point?”

 

The slow blink Darui leveled at him looked, for once, not lazy so much as genuinely baffled. “It’s raining,” he elaborated.

 

“Yeah, I really do get that,” Shisui said. “Day off, wouldn’t you think?”

 

“No,” said Darui blandly. “Kumo residents like the rain.”

 

“Konoha likes rain, too,” said Shisui, rolling his eyes. “We just don’t like the beach on rainy days.”

 

Darui stared at him a little longer, until Shisui began wondering at what point it became socially acceptable to turn his attention back to the infinitely more interesting book at hand. Finally, Darui said, “You should really be out there,” and trudged off, not bothering to close the door.

 

“Close the door!” Shisui yelled.

 

 _“You_ close the door,” Darui retorted. “On your way out!”

 

“Yeah fucking right,” he muttered, at which Darui paused.

 

“Scared of the weather, yeah?” he said. “Typical Konoha.”

 

Shisui listened to his footsteps, slick and squeaking, until they were lost in the pouring rain. Then he flipped a bird at no one in particular, smacked the book shut and placed it firmly on the surface of his nightstand. God damn it.

 

The door was still open. Shisui hopped over the puddle at its foot, slammed it shut and then traced Darui’s footsteps outside.

 

* * *

 

Shisui hated getting his hair wet. He also hated: mist, Mist, rain that drizzled, rain that poured, and above all rain that sloshed like fucking buckets from every direction.

 

Darui was reclined in his chair a little ways up, looked absolutely in his element, face turned up slightly and eyes half-lidded in contentment.

 

Shisui snarled at him, pushing sodden hair out of his eyes and gesturing at his expanse of rolling water empty of life. “There’s nobody, you bastard!”

 

But there was a point of pride in contention, so he clambered up onto the observation chair and curled into himself against the rain. He had a sudden appreciation for the unflinching, unfailing heat of Konoha. There was comfort in that knowledge the sky wouldn’t tear itself apart from one day to the next.

 

He watched the screamings and flailings of the prepubescents under Darui’s guard, half interested and half horrified. These were children damaged beyond repair, brought up in general insanity, uncivilized and demonic, to be enjoying the battering slam of sub-zero rain. Shisui felt the flare of samaritanism in his gut, and its immediate dousing. The children of Kumo were not meant to be saved.

 

He would, of course, deny having vocalized this to Darui if it ever came up in trial.

 

“It’s similar to drawing first blood in a duel,” Darui explained in a rather roundabout way. “Rainletting. The tumble from an ever-present precipice of ozone and storm clouds..." He said more, but Shisui wasn't listening. "Of course it would be celebrated.”

 

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” Shisui said, disturbed. He didn’t see why the celebration had to be physically out in the rain.

 

He wanted a fire. A big fire―would that work? Shisui flexed his stiff fingers. A Katon wasn’t the spontaneous production of combustion but rather the magnification of a chakra expenditure. If he could maintain just a small flame, he could probably outlast this storm without contracting hypothermia―but there was no telling just how much heat the rain would steal.

 

The flame didn’t even flicker before it vanished. Shisui slumped. When, exactly, did a tactical retreat become honorable?

 

“Yo,” came Darui’s voice. “There’s something over there.”

 

“What’s that?” Shisui squinted through the rain. He saw nothing.

 

“It’s a person,” said Darui.

 

“There’s no―” his voice broke. That was definitely something―someone―in the distance, tossing over the relentless waves. “Oh my god,” he breathed, in excitement.

 

It didn’t seem to be struggling against the sea.

 

“You should probably check that out,” said Darui.

 

“I didn’t ask for this,” Shisui said. He thought about that. “Please write that on my tombstone.” Then he pushed off the observation chair.

 

“Drowned men don’t get tombstones,” said Darui.

 

* * *

 

It took more effort than he’d expected to navigate over the roiling water with just chakra on his feet. Against the bracing spray of crashing waves and rain he thought, miserably, that if it wasn’t hypothermia, he could at least count on a vicious cold tomorrow.

 

And, miserably, he thought of the glum fact that he’d be recovering on soldier pills and whatever bit of Darui’s humanity he could appeal to.

 

Over the buoys that marked the Kumo-Konoha segregation, some of the kids were watching interestedly at his tribulation. Shisui would have tossed them a finger or two but he was literally on his hands and knees now, crawling over the storm and kissing goodbye to any dignity he might have once had. He was not too proud to admit that some of these Kumo kids could have reached the drowner with much less difficulty. They did not, after all, seem opposed to swimming in arctic waters, whereas Shisui had self-preservation enough to acknowledge that if he ever lost his chakra grip he would plunge into the depths and never willingly resurface.

 

They probably would have loved to rescue this dumbass, he thought, shove it in Konoha’s face a little. And Konoha wouldn’t have minded. Damn the partition.

 

The closer he got the more and more familiar the figure looked, not from any distinguishable features, but in their silhouette, the androgynous outline of their shoulders and the jut of their chin tipped just above the water line. The gender could really have swung either way but there was something decidedly masculine about them, or perhaps it was just the absence of anything truly feminine. And possibly their gender was the least of his worries, because if they were dead, female or male, Shisui was going to kill them.

 

Lightning split the sky behind them, illuminating the figure into something grotesque, exaggerating ghostly skin and wind-tossed pitch black hair. Some of the kids screamed, shock and delight both. He caught the shape of a jawline as it was thrown into stark relief, and suddenly Shisui lost control of his chakra, felt his left leg plunging into the freezing depths.

 

For that split second he could've sworn―but it couldn't be―

 

"Oh my god, Itachi," he said.

 

He dove for him as soon as he got within reach, looping one arm below the neck and lifting up his head. He was treading water now, other hand untangling the mat of hair and grime from Itachi’s face. Shisui felt as though his mind were processing through a veil of gauze, slowly and confusedly, disoriented by the fact that Itachi should not be here. From the depths a bizarre thought rose, that Itachi would probably look this serene even in death, forever cool and collected whether he was on the toilet or floating half-drowned off the coast of Yokosawa.

 

Shisui confirmed the heartbeat, sluggish and tired, at his throat, but he didn't seem to be lucid. Or breathing. Shisui held him, panicking slightly, desperately looking for the slight fluttering of his chest, the abortive exhales from his mouth. It was barely there, but better than nothing, and Itachi must have been out here for a very long time, longer than Shisui would like to think about.

 

He swung one swollen arm over his shoulders and heaved the body against his, hauling Itachi bodily back to shore.

 

Somewhere along the way, he had lost his mind. Distantly he registered the mind-numbing cold of his extremities, weighing down his limbs as he knelt. Everything seemed to blur except the man on the ground, splayed unartistically over wet sand. Shisui found Itachi's fingers crushed between his own, stiff from the cold and pruned from the water.

 

"The resuscitation measures for drowning," Darui said, "Do you know them?" He had appeared behind Shisui’s shoulder, looking mildly interested at the man Yokosawa had washed up. And behind him, Shisui registered belatedly, was what seemed like the entire population of Kumo in all their dripping wet glory.

 

Of course he did; it was basic safety measures, and Shisui was, well, a lifeguard. The excess water upwelled from Itachi’s lungs in one large, miserable splutter.

 

“He's breathing," Shisui said shortly. "He's just freezing."

 

Like restarting a man’s heart, all Itachi needed was a jolt of energy to fuel his dwindling metabolism. Shisui did not hesitate in diving down, securing his mouth around Itachi's. It wasn't air he breathed out but heat, a tempered fire straight into the depths of Itachi's lungs. His lips were clammy in a rubbery, inorganic way; cold and cracked beneath Shisui's and sluggishly bleeding―or maybe it was just the taste of salt from the ocean. He did not lift his head until he felt Itachi ride out one violent, full-body shudder, as if shaking off the cold from head to toe.

 

He was still unconscious. Shisui examined his face critically. Two spots of color had appeared high on his cheekbones, though they were barely distinct under a mat of congealed blood. The waves had done their part but Itachi's eyes were still weeping fresh drops, beading at his eyelashes and vivid against his bleached skin.

 

"Keep an eye on my side," Shisui said to Darui, as he scooped up his cousin’s unconscious body. "There might be more coming."

 

He did not stay for Darui's response but he heard it anyway. "Your side is _wild_ ," he said, and it was truly a testament to the flatness of his personality that Shisui couldn't tell if he were joking.

 

* * *

 

Shisui held a minute of silence for what was once a clean, hospitable sanctuary of a cabin. His well-maintained floors and crisp, white bedsheets had been spectacularly defaced by the ocean shit that Itachi, and Darui before him, had trekked in; sand, seaweed, and stones alike.

 

"You're such a hassle," Shisui told Itachi, tossing the covers up and letting them drape over his form. He knelt on the ground by his side with the smallest of flames burning in one palm, feeling somehow compelled to hover it beneath each of Itachi’s fingers until he felt he might be able to look Mikoto in the eye when telling her this story. And then he tucked those hands into the sheets and, grudgingly, did the same with his feet.

 

The rain of course had neither let up nor slowed down; it was probably due to their unnatural disposition for the beach on these sorts of days that the Kumo kids had not followed Shisui back to the cabin. Although supposedly they could have, and were just being pretty stealthy about it, which Shisui could appreciate. The other reason was simply that strange, beautiful, and half-dead creatures washed up on Kumo shores regularly enough that this was little short of routine. Either way Shisui was grateful for the quiet, Itachi left on his bed, himself sitting at the kitchenette swirling a cup of tea and watching the steam rise.

 

It wasn’t the weirdest thing to ever have happened to him, but he couldn’t help but feel a little bit disconcerted. He was on vacation, after all, and the appearance of one sickly, half-drowned baby cousin seemed like some sort of karmic repercussion he couldn’t remember deserving.

 

It would be okay. Itachi would wake by the morning and return to whatever it was Itachi did and Mikoto would send along some sweets and rice-balls and maybe an umbrella, and Shisui could continue to sunbathe under dubitably blue skies. With that happy thought he warmed up another cup of tea and returned to his room. Itachi would of course have to be relocated to the ground at some point, unless Shisui spontaneously developed some decency along the way, but just then Shisui needed his copy of _Tales of A Gutsy Ninja_.

 

He slid the door shut behind him, carefully sidestepping the debris and tracks of ocean slime with his steaming mug held aloft. And then he paused. His book was not on the nightstand.

 

And Itachi was not unconscious on the bed.

 

"Not another step," Itachi said softly, and at that Shisui realized that one, Itachi's eyes were open but tell-tale dull and still gently dripping blood; and two, Itachi could make _The Tales of A Gutsy Ninja_ look threatening just by holding it aloft in one hand.

 

Shisui stared at him for a long moment, then barked a short, relieved laugh. “Oh my god, Itachi, the melodrama,” he said, and took three deliberate steps across the room.

 

At his voice, the expression on Itachi’s face didn’t morph per se (the faults of a very limited range of emotion), but his stern features shifted minisculely into something less outright terrible. It probably had to do with the angles of depression between his eyebrows, Shisui mused. Eyebrows were really important. Far more expressive, though, were the knuckles on Itachi’s hand, which unclenched around the spine of the novel. “Shisui,” he said finally.

 

Shisui smiled and crouched in front of him, gingerly extracting the novel from his hands and replacing it with the mug of hot tea. “Hi,” he said. He let his fingers wrap around Itachi’s, and felt some bizarre tenderness rise like vomit within him, just hot enough to suppress his shudder at Itachi’s grossly clammy hand.

 

All at once the tension seemed to literally fall from Itachi’s shoulders, like he recognized Shisui by the feel of his fingers. He hunched over, suddenly boneless, and let his hair falls like a curtain around them. Shisui made no move to brush the damp tendrils away, matted and smelly though they were. He didn’t even snark about a haircut. “It’s tea,” he said instead. “You should probably hydrate.”

 

“I was in the ocean for fourteen or so hours,” Itachi said. It was more of a croak. He really was a piece of work, Shisui reflected.

 

“Last time I checked you didn’t absorb water through your skin,” he answered.

 

“You’ve never checked that.”

 

Ignoring him, Shisui pressed on. “Actually, last time I checked you weren’t drowning off the coast of Yokosawa. How’d that happen?”

 

Itachi blinked at him, meeting his eyes unnervingly, though Shisui was positive he hadn’t regained his vision. Then he blinked again.

 

He did that whenever he didn’t want to answer. Shisui made a face at him that he couldn’t see, and instead tightened his grip around Itachi’s fingers. “Okay,” he said. “Just drink your goddamn tea, then.”

 

The vomit-like burning rose again, this time at the back of his throat, when he realized Itachi’s entire arm was trembling. Imperceptibly, yet severely so. He let the rim of the mug press against Itachi’s lips, where it stayed, steaming slightly, for a moment.

 

“I wasn’t drowning,” Itachi said finally. And then like he had proven some point, tipped his head back and took one long swallow.

 

Well, Shisui had dealt with his cousin’s counterproductive, and not to mention chronic, denial for twelve or so long years. “If you weren’t drowning, then why’d I have to save your ass?”

 

“It was you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Who found me,” he clarified.

 

“Oh, yeah.” In what way was that not obvious, Shisui wondered. “I’ve been saving your ass long enough to merit a mention in your biography when you die. You know that, right?”

 

“Nobody’s writing a biography,” dismissed Itachi. “But out of gratitude, you can split my life insurance with Sasuke.”

 

“No point in that, you already gave the landlord ten years’ worth of down payment.”

 

“You’re going to need more than ten years,” Itachi said disapprovingly, and then moved the mug and Shisui’s hand over to set it down on the nightstand. He let go of the mug, but did not let go of Shisui’s hand.

 

Shisui hopped up on the bed, resolutely ignoring the damp and dirty sheets, and sat beside him. He let his shoulder lean against Itachi’s, and they stayed like that for a peaceable moment.

 

Then he couldn’t stop himself. “Fucking hell, Itachi, would you take a shower?” He smelled, of course, like a rat that had fucked a tuna, but Shisui wasn’t going to voice that.

 

He also wasn’t going to voice that Itachi was still shivering like dead leaf in the wind, or the fact that it was really bothering him.

 

“I’m shocked,” said Itachi as Shisui pulled him into the bathroom. Itachi would’ve groped around for the door like a blind bat before he ever asked for help, so Shisui had made the executive decision of not letting go of his hand. “This is quite forward of you, Shisui.”

 

Shisui had also made the executive decision of stripping Itachi. With a noise of disgust he flung aside the flak jacket. “Shut up. Feet,” he said.

 

Itachi leaned back against the counter and lifted one leg. There was faint amusement on his face. “Considering you haven’t even bought me dinner, you could allow me the courtesy of my socks.”

 

“Your wretched, ruinous foot wrappings,” Shisui corrected, “are the opposite of courtesy.” He tossed them in the sink. “Strip yourself, then, and take a shower. I’ll go make some dinner.”

 

“I couldn’t possibly find the shower on my own,” said Itachi, his eyes wide. “Won’t you take me there?”

 

“You’re a dick,” Shisui told him. “Here’s the soap.” Then he slammed the bathroom door behind him.

 

* * *

  

Shisui was no longer clear on what time it was, only that it had gotten dark outside. He had reached the start of chapter eleven, when with a jolt he realized he hadn’t moved in a long, long time and the shower was still on. Was it possible to drown twice in one day? Of course Itachi would be the one to find out. Shisui grabbed a towel and made for the bathroom door.

 

“Itachi, are you okay?” Shisui said loudly, knocking once. “Make a noise if yes.” He pressed his ear against the door perfunctorily and heard nothing. “Okay,” he called, “I’m coming in.”

 

There was nothing on the counter except for a flak jacket and socks. “Uhh,” said Shisui. “Itachi, make some noise, or I’m busting that curtain open.”

 

Nothing. He sighed. It was a little disconcerting to realize he still didn’t know for sure the limits of what he would do for Itachi. What he did know for sure was that he deserved at least a full paragraph in that biography.

 

And so he flung the curtain aside. Itachi was standing, fully clothed, face turned up at the spray. His eyes were open.

 

“Did you use soap?” Shisui asked, dumbly.

 

Itachi turned to look at him. He must’ve forgotten to take into account the slight elevation of the shower stall off the ground, because his aim was slightly too high. “I’m allergic,” he said, very quietly.

 

To cleanliness? Shisui almost said, but didn’t, because the picture of Itachi standing like a wet sewer rat in over-sized clothing under Shisui’s shitty low-pressure shower in Yokosawa, with a bar of soap rapidly disintegrating in one hand, invited only one word: misery. So he carefully schooled his features into something proper for a funeral, gently coaxed his the remains of his only bar of soap from Itachi’s hand, and shut off the shower. Itachi looked surprised.

 

“I am putting,” said Shisui slowly and stupidly, like he would to an injured genin, “a towel on a rack along the wall to your right. Use it. Leave your wet rags in the sink, and you’ll find a change of clothes on the counter. Use those, too. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” said Itachi. He did nothing.

 

“Okay,” said Shisui. He waited, but Itachi still did not move. “Well?”

 

“Oh,” said Itachi, soundly mildly apologetic. “I cannot lift my arms above hip-height just yet.”

 

“Why the hell not?” demanded Shisui. If there was permanent damage to their precious heir, the Clan would have his head for it.

 

“Well, my ribs are broken.”

 

“That has nothing to do with your arms.” Shisui frowned. “Does it?”

 

“Oh,” said Itachi again, sounding more apologetic than ever. “It’s a hands-free self-healing technique I’m perfecting. I’ve found the bones knit much faster when the body’s chakra pathways are aligned in a certain way. So I can’t lift my arms.”

 

A hands-free self-healing technique for his broken ribs.

 

Vindictively, Shisui turned the shower back on over Itachi’s head. “Use some goddamn shampoo this time,” he said, and left.

 

Some twenty minutes later the door burst open with Darui. He was soaked, but didn’t seem to be put off by it; he stretched a little, even, reminiscent of a content cat except this was one of those bristly, demented cats that splashed in puddles because they didn’t realize cats and water weren’t supposed to mix.

 

Darui dripped all the way to the kitchen. Since the cabin was already ruined down to its dubious foundations, Shisui didn’t even look up. He felt the weight of Darui’s curiosity rest over the back of his neck where he was bent over his papers.

 

“Well, good evening,” said Darui eventually, and retreated to his room without further comment.

 

The shower stopped just as Darui’s door clicked shut. Shisui didn’t put that down to mere coincidence. He gathered the papers on the table into a loose heap and made no move to get up when Itachi nudged aside the bathroom door, looking horribly disheveled with his wet hair soaking into a gray shirt.

 

It was oddly unbalancing to see him without an Uchiha fan on his clothing. “You look better,” said Shisui, neutrally.

 

“I feel better,” said Itachi, settling down across from him.

 

“Your ribs? Are they fixed?”

 

“Of course they are,” said Itachi.

 

“ ‘Of course they are,’ ” Shisui repeated, rolling his eyes. “And your vision?”

 

“Returned, thank you for asking.” He paused, seeming to realize it wasn’t what Shisui was asking. “It happens sometimes, when my chakra system is compromised. The eyes are usually the last place it leaves, and the last place it returns.”

 

"Okay," said Shisui.  “Your eyes run on chakra?”

 

Itachi stared at him, and smiled sadly. “Nevermind,” said Shisui. “Don’t want to know.”

 

“Take me to bed,” Itachi said. “Darling.”

 

“Aren’t we just the picture of domestic life,” said Shisui, and they both got up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, i know i said tbc last chapter and it took me over a year to get this up. i make no promises, but this is not the end :)


End file.
